


bare-stript heart

by alamorn



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-09-24 16:17:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9770012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn
Summary: Six months after he's pulled from the hole Grindelwald stashed him in, Graves is doing his best to drink the nightmares away. At a No-Maj speakeasy, avoiding everyone he knows, he spots a beautiful young man.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Graves is developing a drinking problem, although it's not full blown yet. There is the beginning of a blowjob, where no one involved is 100% on the identity of the other.

Graves wouldn’t say he has a drinking problem, but that’s mostly because Seraphina said it for him. Actually, what she said was, “If I hear you’ve been drinking alone again, you’ll be on desk duty for the rest of your life. I’m sure Goldstein will be happy to take over legwork for you.” Which is why he’s sitting in the corner of a speakeasy, on his third glass of generously named scotch.

It’s not even a magic bar, but a real, honest to God, No-Maj speakeasy. A year and a half ago, before…everything, he wouldn’t have been caught dead in one. Now, it’s his best bet for getting sloppy drunk with no one he knows around to see.

This isn’t what Sera had meant, but he’s pretty sure she’ll allow it on a question of semantics before she shackles him to his desk. There’s still that much fondness between them, even after his…replacement.

On the other side of the bar is a man Graves can’t keep his eyes from. He looks like a poet, with dark hair curling around his jawline and cheekbones so sharp Graves wants to press his thumbs to them and see if he bleeds.

Graves is staring, which is rude, and he’s on his way to drunk with no plans of stopping, which is also rude, but he’s not about to stop either.

By the time the man notices Graves’ staring, all he has in front of him is an empty glass. The man makes eye contact, then summons the bartender with a flick of his fingers. He gets two drinks and carries them across the room. One he settles in front of Graves, the other he keeps in his own hand, spinning it slowly as he sits.

“Do you have something to say to me?” His tone is guarded, his body language tight and uncomfortable, his eyes so dark Graves can’t tell where his pupils end and his irises start.

Graves holds his gaze and takes a sip of the drink the man brought him. He can barely taste it, which means it would be vodka in a better life. “Enjoying the view,” he says.

“A vision?” the man says, voice poisonous.

Graves blinks, surprised. “No,” he says, mild. “Just a handsome man, better to look at than my own cup.”

The wariness does not quite melt from his face, but it settles into something different, a vulpine smile, attractive, inviting, but with a reminder of teeth. The No-Majs are different about same-sex relationships, Graves remembers.

The man drains his drink in one long swallow — Graves watches the bob of his throat, palms sweating, a roar at the edge of his hearing — and when he puts the glass delicately back onto the table he smiles with all of his teeth and says, “How much more would you like to look at?”

Graves takes a sip to hide his surprise. When he speaks, his voice has dropped into a lower register. “How much are you willing to show me?”

“Let’s step outside and see,” he says, and Graves follows without thought. He’s tempted to grab the man up and apparate straight to his apartment, but sleeping with a No-Maj is inadvisable enough already. They don’t stop in the alley — already occupied, the woman’s moans painfully obviously fake — and the man walks like he knows where he’s going.

They don’t hold hands or look at each other, but their elbows brush. It’s a cool night, and Graves is tempted to offer his coat to the man, in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, but that may be inviting an intimacy unsearched for.

It takes a shamefully long time for Graves to realize they’re headed to Central Park. It’s dark, in the park, the lights of the city hazy and distant as suddenly as magic. When they are deep enough, the man pushed Graves against a tree and kisses him hard. Graves lets him, hands smoothing over hips and ribs. They’re sharp, even under the layers of clothes, and Graves decides to buy the man dinner before they part.

The kiss is demanding, one thin hand behind his head, tilting his head just the slightest bit up, hot tongue running against Graves’, until he nips hard at Graves’ lip and pulls away.

One hand slides down to palm Graves’ rapidly hardening cock, and Graves bites back a curse. Graves grabs his wrist. “Take your time,” he says, panting a little.

The man studies him for a moment, head tilted to the side. Then he squeezes and Graves has to lean his head back against the tree. “No,” he says. “I have tired of waiting.”

Before Graves can parse that, he drops to his knees and mouths at Graves through his pants. Graves traces his jaw as he unzips Graves’ pants and draws out Graves’ cock. He stares at it for a moment, concerningly intense.

Feeling awkward, Graves says, “I don’t have anything, if you’re worried, but you don’t have to—“ He stops talking with a gasp as the man licks a hot stripe from base to tip.

He mouths the head almost tentatively, at odds with his earlier aggression. And when he looks coquettishly up through his lashes, his eyes are pure white.

Graves kicks him in the chest and scrambles away. “Laveau’s _lungs_ ,” he cries, trying to tuck himself away and get his wand out at the same time. He doesn’t accomplish either before the man explodes into a black cloud.

“Obscurus,” he breathes. His cock can’t decide whether this is interesting or not, but he tucks it away regardless.

“Do you remember me now, Mr. Graves?” the obscurus asks him.

The reminder of the time he missed is like a bucket of cold water over his head. His shoulders droop, his cock goes soft. He scrubs a hand across his face. “Credence,” he says. “I read about you. In the report they gave me, once they pulled me out of the hole Grindelwald stashed me in.”

A body starts to form out of the smoke and white eyes open and stare at him. “You’re lying,” he says, but he doesn’t sound certain.

Graves lets out a bitter laugh. “I wish I was. He hurt you, Credence. He hurt me too.” He shrugs off his coat, unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them up so the livid scars that circle them are visible in the moonlight. With a snap he summons a light so Credence can read his own name carved into Graves’ forearm. “He liked to tell me of you, while he played with his knives. He did terrible things to you, Credence, and he did it with my face. I’ll understand if you kill me.”

Credence is a man again, cheeks flushed with living blood. His hands are hot and prickle with magic when he grabs Graves’ arm and traces _BAREBONE_ written in scar tissue. “Is he dead?” he asks, voice trembling.

“Imprisoned.” Graves knows his own tone is cold and hard. He is not sure he has forgiven Seraphina for not killing the man immediately. He understands why she hasn’t, but he has to drink himself to sleep to keep the dreams at bay. He doesn't have the best grasp on his emotions right now.

Credence grasps his arm and shoves magic through his skin. Graves yelps and pulls away, but when he looks at his arm the scar is gone. “You shouldn’t have been able to do that.”

Credence shrugs. He’s awkward now, gangly and unsure in how he holds his body. “I’ve been reliably informed I shouldn’t be alive, either.” His eyes, when he meets Graves’ gaze, are dark once more. “Do you want to kill him?”

“God, yes,” Graves breathes.


	2. Chapter 2

Graves pulls Credence closer than he needs to, tight together from shoulders to hips, and apparates them to the ground in front of MACUSA. Credence stumbles away from him and looks up, mouth just slightly open so Graves can see a hint of beguiling darkness. He doesn't lunge forward and crush their mouths together, but it is a near thing.

"Have you ever killed before?" he asks as he leads Credence into the building.It's empty, and only half the charms run around the clock. The only light is a spell Graves carries over his shoulder. Credence jumps as a paper shuttles past at high speeds.

"Yes," Credence says, tone an uncertain balance between _you fucking idiot_ and shame.

"Ah." Of course. It was part of the information Seraphina gave him, part of the reason she ordered the kill. The Obscurus lashed out with little distinction between insult and attack. Graves wants to rail, wants to ask, _why couldn't you have killed_ him _?!_ But he is not so drunk as that. "On purpose?"

Credence shows him his teeth. It is not a smile, though Credence might think it is. "I thought of killing my mother every single day of my life."

"Was it satisfying?"

Credence's features jump inhumanly but he keeps his shape. "Where is he?" he says, instead of answering.

Graves smile, unamused. "Patience."

Credence keeps his distance as they descend to the cell Grindelwald will die in. Elbows and shoulders brushing on the way to the park was not intimate, but Graves still finds himself longing for the closeness.

No one touches him anymore. Sera was the only one who was so casual with him before, and they have lost that. He is still angry, and Grindelwald did something to discourage her affections. She does not even try to reach out to him anymore. And she is so busy now, that he does not even see her more than minutes a week.

He's not…he's not _drunk_ , but his head is filled with hot air. He finds his body moving before his brain catches up, if not his tongue. He crowds Credence into the wall, so close their breath mingles. Credence looks down his nose at him, unimpressed.

His lips are soft and red from being chewed on. Graves wants desperately to kiss him. He doesn't. "Let me get you dinner after this," he says.

Credence bursts into surprised laughter. "What?"

"I'd like it to be a date, but I'll settle for getting some food in you. You're too thin."

Credence moves to shove him away, but Graves doesn't move and Credence lets his hands curl loosely around Graves' lapels. He smiles slowly, a devilish curve that Graves finds himself desperate to see again. "This is your idea of a good time? A murder and dinner?"

"Couldn't think of anything better, or any better company." Graves knows his expression is too serious, his gaze too heated. His cock is hard again, suddenly.

Color rises in Credence's face. This close, he can see the edge of his pupils, and how they suddenly dilate. "Okay," Credence whispers and then he draws Graves into a searing kiss.

When he finally pulls away, Graves has to remind himself what they're in MACUSA for. He runs his tongue hard along his teeth and lets the edge of pain bring him back to his purpose.

Credence lets him wind their fingers together and lead him down by the hand. There are a few guards, aurors Graves trained himself. They hesitate, and he Stupefies them easily.

Credence rips throught the enchantments on the door without seeming to notice them, and Grindelwald looks up at them, expression unreadable. Or perhaps Graves just doesn't want to read it.

"Have you come to kill me?" he asks, unconcerned. "I don't think your lovely President would like that very much."

"She'll understand," Graves says. "Credence, would you like to do the honors, or shall I?"

Credence responds by bursting into black. Graves sags back against the wall as Credence works. He has read the reports. They do not do Credence justice.

When he is done, and human, there is blood on his teeth and on the walls. There is not enough left of Grindelwald to identify.

They don't fuck in that room, but it's a close thing.

Instead, they go to the closest 24-hour diner.

Graves orders Credence eggs and sausage and enough hash browns to keep him full for a week. For himself, he gets a slice of cherry pie. His head is throbbing as he drops back to sobriety, and the syrupy sweetness makes his teeth ache.

He pushes a cherry around his plate and watches Credence devour the food in front of him.

"What have you been doing?" he asks when Credence pauses for breath. "Since…the event."

Credence rubs his chest absently. Old hurts? "I licked my wounds for a while. It took…a long time to build a body again." He gazes into the middle distance. "Being the obscurus, _just_ the obscurus…" He licks his lips, his foot tapping fast under the table. "It was…Nice. I wasn't hungry, or hurting. I couldn't think, but I couldn't miss thinking either. Then there was an alley…" He pauses for a long time, unhappiness written in every line of his face. Graves stays quiet.

"Well," Credence says, "there was a point where I had to be a person again. I built my first body from magic. A remarkable thing, magic. Even more remarkable that mine was allowed to hide and turn on me." Graves doesn't flinch from the cool, accusing look Credence levels at him. He's not wrong.

"You're right," Graves says, when it becomes clear that Credence _needs_ him to respond. "It's a terrible thing that we allowed to happen to you. And what we did to you. How would you like me to make it up to you?"

Credence's eyes widen. Not what he was expecting? "How do you like being on your knees, Mr. Graves?"

"Would it be me there, or Grindelwald?"

The smile that brings to Credence's face is a new one, soft and delighted. "I will not make you atone for his sins, Mr. Graves, don't worry." He slides his hand flat onto the table and his fingertips wisp away. "If you truly want to help me, Mr. Graves, help me build a better body. This one is half magic and half mud."

Graves slides his hand over Credence's. The skin is cool, the flesh firm, the smoke warm and pulsing with life. He lets out a slow, shuddery breath. "And you want a body with blood?" He smiles, can't help it, settles back, letting his chest open and his knees swing wider. "Yes, I can help with that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah just never believe me about how many chapters something is. it always grows on me.


	3. Chapter 3

Seraphina probably looks stern to the men surrounding them, including the ones restraining his arms, but her glee couldn't be clearer to Graves.

"Extra judicial killings are not normally your style," she says, straightbacked and straightfaced and radiating happiness.

"No," Graves agrees, looking sternly back at her. There's a warmth in her eyes he hasn't seen since before. The delight bubbles up in his stomach, so that it's hard to keep from grinning.

She looks between him and Credence. Credence is unrestrained, and obviously, insouciantly, here of his own choosing. He's not examining his nails, but he might as well be, for how much attention he's paying.

"Six months house arrest," she says. "And community service. You'll be rehabilitating and training Credence Barebone, whose condition is our fault, and whose treatment is our joy. I'm sure that the death of Grindelwald was an accident, due to a well demonstrated lack of control on the part of the obscurus. No one's fault."

There's a murmur of dissent behind her, and she raises a hand. It stops immediately. "Everyone here has seen the destruction caused by an out of control obscurus. We have, unfortunately, tried killing him. Now, we will try compassion. Grindelwald was a dangerous criminal, and one we would not have been able to execute or hold for long. I almost want to thank him."

"I'm sure the Ministry will be eager to hear that," drawls one of the Cabinet and Sera looks at him so coolly he shivers.

"I will escort the prodigals to Graves' home and set the wards that will keep him on house arrest. Now, unless anyone else would like to question my judgement?"

No one speaks, so Seraphina strides down and grasps both Graves and Credence firmly and side-alongs the both of them to Graves' house.

When they pop back into the world, she throws herself on his couch, laughing. "Did you see their faces?"

He grins at her. "I'm sure the Ministry could see how furious Auberg was from across the pond. Thank you, Sera."

She scoffs at him and sets the wards with a gesture of her hand. He feels them settle into place. It's powerful magic, but magic has always loved Seraphina. He was jealous, when they were rivals in Ilvermony, but that is long past.

Now, he relaxes into the feel of her magic.

"Credence," she says, sitting forward. She doesn't look earnest, exactly, because Seraphina's poker face hasn't slipped since the war. "I _am_ sorry. The wards are only set for Percy -- if you want to leave, you may. But I do think that learning your magic is the best way forward for you."

Credence blinks at her. He's off-kilter now, and Graves can see just how young he is. Twenty-two and unused to freedom, afraid of the choices in front of him. He knows how to react, not act.

To give him a moment to think, Graves cuts in. "Only set for me, Sera? Are you being considerate, or is Credence too strong for you?"

She gives him the same singularly unimpressed face she gave him when they were thirteen and he fell off his broom. "You mean I have to choose?" she says after a long pause.

Credence huffs a soft laugh. "I'll stay, for the moment," he says. He does not say, "Thank you."

"All right," she says and gets to her feet. "Do you have food in the house, or should I send someone by?"

"Nothing I'd feed a guest," Graves admits and she scoffs.

"Too many liquid dinners, old man. All right." She sighs heavily and presses a hand to her temple. "I have many long days ahead of me, but I'll come by regularly. To renew the wards, and to keep myself from turning dictator."

He catches her hand and squeezes it. "Good luck, Sera."

She flicks his nose and apparates away.

Credence stares at him, eyes huge in his pale face. Graves smiles at him, surprised by its honesty. He _likes_ Credence, and while he is still hollowed out with rage and fear, he is no longer sick with it. The rot has been cut from him, and from the world.

"Go get changed," he says. "Take anything from my closet. You don't need to wear his blood around my house."

Credence examines the rusty stains on his sleeves and shrugs, then heads upstairs. Graves begins to look through his books. How to make a body…

He'll have to ask Sera to bring more specialized sources, but he's sure he has _something_ , he just needs to find it…

He starts a small pile of books that might be relevant on the coffee table. The shower turns on and then off upstairs, then the soft pat of bare feet on hardwood descends the stairs. When he looks up, Credence hesitates on the last step, drowning in cream cableknit and flannel pajama pants.

Graves feels himself turn sultry, eyes heavy lidded, walk liquid. Credence smiles, showing the sharp white edges of his teeth. Credence allows Graves to crowd him back into the wall. He's already taller than Graves, and with the inches the step gives him, Graves' mouth is level with Credence's collarbones.

Credence bends down and kisses him, careful, thorough, like he is looking for meaning in Graves' teeth and the ridges of the roof of his mouth. If he finds any, Graves hopes he will share it.

Languidly, Credence unbuttons Graves' vest and shirt. He takes a step back, blood roaring in his ears, and lets his coat fall to the ground, his scarf, his vest, his shirt. Credence halts him with a hand on his chest, takes a moment to admire him.

A white undershirt, a hard-on straining at his slacks. Credence's gaze passes over him like a physical weight. He feels ridiculous, a dirty old man in his underwear.

Credence seems to notice the discomfort, and he cups Graves' jaw with a gentle hand. He traces Graves' lips with his thumb -- the coolness of his skin is blatant. _Blood_ , Graves remembers. Then he pulls Graves' lip down, nail bumping against teeth.

Graves drops his jaw just enough for Credence to push his thumb fully in. There's none of the salt of skin, as he swirls his tongue, just the faint taste of soap. How carefully did he wash his hands? Is there still blood on his nails?

When he sucks at Credence's thumb, it turns fully to magic, filling his mouth so he gags. Credence pulls away, blushing bright and tripping over his apologies.

Graves catches his wrist and pulls his hand back to his mouth, taking his first two fingers this time and sucking hard so they turn to magic, filling his mouth and throat. Credence stares at him, mouth open, eyes white, as he chokes and gags on magic so sharp his jaw aches and his tongue tingles.

He comes in his pants and pulls Credence's hand from his mouth.

"Well," Credence says, awkward for all that Graves can see his own erection. "Um."

"Sh," Graves hushes him, closing his eyes and just feeling his body for a moment. He can feel his heartbeat in his eyelids. The mess in his pants is already annoying him, but he can feel his heart beating and he doesn't resent it. That's nice. "I'll be back shortly, make yourself at home."

A wave of his hand sends his forgotten clothes to hang and cleans the mess in his pants, and then he climbs the stairs to take his own shower. It's rude to leave Credence in such a state, but Graves is too old for both kneeling on hardwood and letting himself linger in ruined underwear. If he'd known he'd have such a …reaction to Credence's magic, he wouldn't have done it. Well, not then and there.

A moment after he starts his shower, Credence slides the curtain aside and makes himself at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> never believe me about how long something is going to be, apparently. anyway, if you like progress reports (yelling at the void), i'm on [tumblr](http://www.alamorn.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings in bottom notes bc they're kinda spoilery. nothing too bad tho

Seraphina sends a stack of books as tall as Graves with the groceries. They cover alchemy, creation, transfiguration, potions, from every source the MACUSA library could verify.

Graves powers through them and tells Credence what to look for and sets him to reading, too. Credence interrupts him with questions at first, from, "The illustrations are moving!" to, "How likely is it that the particular dirt matters, as opposed to Beuchard just being too lazy to try multiple?" but they grow less frequent as he gets used to the material.

The house arrest is half blessing, half curse, as he's sure Sera intended it to be. Uninterrupted by his career they advance faster than they otherwise would. Not allowed to leave, he frequently grows testy and snappish and sets them back. Credence takes walks every day, and if Graves snaps at him he disappears for hours, but Graves sees no one but Credence and the occasional auror, and the even more occasional Seraphina, he moves nowhere that is not his own home.

It's not at all like his imprisonment by Grindelwald. For one, he's not tortured and drugged and bound in place. Still, he can't keep himself from claustrophobia.

He finds himself begging Seraphina to let him take a walk, though he knows she can't.

"Would you rather prison?" she asks, eyebrows knit with concern. "That's the only alternative I can offer you." She's sincere, he _knows_ she is, and yet he sinks back as if she's struck him.

"No," he says. "No."

She cradles his face and searches his eyes. He turns his head, presses a kiss to her palm. She lets him take his comfort for a moment, tracing small circles on the back of his neck as he breathes in the smell of parchment and ink and the spice of her magic that always clings to her left hand. Her rings are body warm and when he is ready to talk he kisses each one and pulls away.

"How's the research going?" she asks, pulling her hands back to her lap and lacing her fingers together.

He runs a hand through his hair. It's unkempt and shaggy, several weeks past when he normally shaves. "We've ruled a lot of options out."

She gives him a wry grin. "Step one. How's Credence?"

"Tired of me," Graves sighs. "Probably regretting throwing his lot in with a bitter old man."

"Oh, don't say that," she says. "He's probably regretting throwing his lot in with a _messy_ old man. He knew you were bitter."

Graves rolls his eyes at her. "Can you bring me a cubic foot of wand quality hawthorn? And a phoenix feather. And copper wire."

"Do you need a wandmaker as well?" Seraphina tsks. "You never ask for small things do you?"

He grins at her. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"Oh, well, if you're retreating to platitudes and cliches, I've overstayed my welcome. I'll get you your materials, don't you worry."

She waves her hand and strengthens the wards, then disapparates. Credence appears a moment later, sleepy and yawning.

He sniffs the air, rubs his eyes. "Was President Picquery here?"

"You _can_ call her Seraphina, you know," Graves says, lounging back on the couch.

"She works very hard," Credence says, wandering around to join him. "Calling her by her title is respectful." He settles next to Graves, leaning into him. For being mud and magic, he's solid. Not warm, and his skin doesn't have the right give, but through their clothes he feels like any other person.

Graves traces his fingertips down the back of Credence's neck, feeling the bump-bump-bump of bone. He wonders, sometimes, what Credence looks like inside. If you cut him, he does not bleed, just oozes black smoke. He's demonstrated the transformation for Graves hundreds of times at this point, slow and fast, limited to parts or all at once.

Each time it sends a thrill through Graves. Such power, such control. No one has _ever_ studied an obscurial like this before. No obscurial has lived so long before. He is constantly overwhelmed by the enormity of the history they're making, of what Credence has overcome.

This does not stop him from wanting to take a knife to Credence's chest, to see if the bones he can feel are actually there.

"I think we'll have a solution for you soon," he says, nuzzling the smooth skin behind Credence's ear. The sooner Credence has a body the better. For Graves as well.

Credence hums. He's worked through each step with Graves, each failure. He's less optimistic. He's used to being let down.

Graves, on the other hand, is used to keeping his word. He promised Credence a body and blood, and that is what he will deliver.

 

Sera delivers faster than Graves thought possible, dropping off the wood, copper wire, and phoenix feather with a kiss on the cheek for him and Credence both. "Good luck," she says, as she does every time. "You don't want to know what I had to do to get that feather, don't waste it."

Graves brushes it across her nose to make her laugh, then hurries her out, eager to get started.

It takes him a week to carve the wood, another to inscribe every word for "life" that can fit and to work the copper into the inscriptions. He's unused to such delicate work with his magic. When he blinks he sees Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Ancient Egyptian, language after language.

Credence massages his hands every night. He can see the hope growing in Credence's eyes, as he knows it does in his own. "You'll still be built of magic," he reminds them both.

"Magic with a core," Credence says. "More than the dirt from an alley. More than something scavenged and filthy."

Graves kisses him hard. "You have never been filthy," he promises, then lays him down and tells him just how lovely he is.

 

When it is done, there is a hawthorn heart worked over with life on the kitchen table. Trembling, Credence puts the phoenix feather in the carefully carved aorta.

Graves nods at Credence. Credence steps back and Graves steps forward, cuts his hand deep, picking the heart up. His blood crawls along the copper and into the veins and arteries.

There is no spell for this, no history to work off of. Instead, Graves says, "Intent be turned solid. Magic, obscurus, this is your favored child. Serve him as he has served you." It's half plea, half command, and he can feel when magic heeds him, his own and Credence's.

It's as if his blood is being pulled from his body. He goes to his knees, dizzy, as more and more blood enters the heart. It starts to pump in his hand, growing hot. Credence trembles beside him, moving like a heat mirage over pavement in the summer, fading in and out of existence.

"Please," Graves says, tongue thick and going numb. "Give him the life he deserves, the one I owe him. This is my debt, and I beg you, help me fulfill it."

He passes out.

When he wakes, Credence is crouching over him, cheeks pink with blood, a smile splitting his face. There's dried out dirt on the floor where he stood before Graves fainted. The heart is nowhere to be seen.

"It worked," Credence says. "You lost a lot of blood."

"I know exactly where it is," Grave says, crossly. His head is throbbing, and so is his hand.

Credence laughs and kisses him. His lips and mouth are human hot, and when Graves clutches at the back of his neck that's hot too, bones pressing into his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lotta blood and an instance of self harm but like. for a purpose, not outta depression, if that makes a difference for you
> 
> also hawthorn is supposed to be drawn to people with a conflicted nature, going through a period of turmoil. jsyk

**Author's Note:**

> written for a prompt from osteolojist on tumblr


End file.
